


clipping the moth's wings

by waterleveldropping



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Drugged Sex, Egg Laying, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Oviposition, Partner Betrayal, Polyamory, Stockholm Syndrome, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Unhappy Ending, Vaginal Sex, Web Avatar Martin Blackwood, Weird Biology, Whump, we found it. the worlds Worst polycule.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26777767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterleveldropping/pseuds/waterleveldropping
Summary: Martin smiles that same soft, safe smile, and Jon thinks Martin’s canines look ever so slightly sharper.---Torn between the comfort of having Jon to himself and saving the world, Martin makes a questionable executive decision. Annabelle and Salesa help.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Annabelle Cane/Mikaele Salesa, Mikaele Salesa/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 30
Kudos: 140





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! happy october! i wanted to write something spooky for this month, and whats spookier than spiders and haunted houses? i havent done a chaptered fic in a bit, so im excited :>
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please heed the warnings!
> 
> edit 10/28: please be advised that this is very very whumpy with an unhappy ending! hurt no comfort! bad times with no aftercare! dont read if thats not your bag!

“Last door at the end of the hallway, right there on the left,” Salesa’s deep, cheery voice echoes from behind. Martin takes a few more steps with Jon at his side, and pauses in front of one of many identical doors in the ornate hall. 

“Yes, there you go. That’s the one!” Salesa reaffirms. “You two let me know if you need anything else, yes? Dinner is six PM sharp,” then, with a wave of his hand, he’s turned the corner, his whistling growing quieter as his steps reverberate in the huge halls. 

“I don’t think my watch works anymore,” Jon remarks, so matter-of-fact that Martin can’t help but snicker. It gets him a defiant ‘what?’ from Jon as Martin opens the door to the room they’ll apparently be staying in. Not that either of them are particularly planning on staying _long,_ if they can help it. 

“Mm, no clock in here, either,” Martin says as he looks around the room. It’s pristine, all white and ornate, but all Martin can properly take in is the bed. It’s soft, and real ,and _big_ , big enough for both of them, not like the twin size bed back in the cabin. 

“Well, I guess it’s fine,” Martin sets their bags down on a fancy red chair in the corner of the room. The place truly is enormous, the ceiling must be five meters, at least. They’re both exhausted, barely having the energy to make it in here. But Salesa had woken them after they’d both collapsed, told them to at the very least sleep somewhere comfortable. 

“They’ll come and wake us if it’s really that big a deal. Right now all I want is to--” Martin flopped onto the bed with an ‘oof’. “--fall asleep with you.” 

Jon sits on the edge of the bed and begins to peel off his muddy boots. “That does sound very appealing,” he gets the last boot off with a huff, kicking it onto the floor, and then lets himself fall limply onto the duvet next to Martin. Despite being exhausted, starving, and filthy-- not to mention having to deal with all of it hitting them at once-- Jon still gives a warm smile when he turns and sees Martin’s face next to him. In _bed,_ even. He’s too drowsy to properly appreciate how much the sudden feeling in his chest means to him, but luckily he doesn’t have to. Martin scoops Jon up in his arms and situates them both under the soft, clean covers. 

Sighing from a combination of exhaustion and contentedness, Jon wraps his arms around Martin, soft, warm, safe Martin, and yawns. Martin holds him tightly, his chin pressed to the top of Jon’s hair. Jon is holed up perfectly, allowing Martin to feel the warm breath on his neck as he falls asleep almost instantly. 

They end up sleeping through dinner, and then the next one as well. By the time they wake up, the sky outside the gossamer curtains is just beginning to get dark. The empty, howling winds of the outside world are absent, replaced with a gentle breeze through the leaves of the trees outside their window, and the occasional light chirping of songbirds. 

Martin has a few seconds after he wakes before he comes to his senses where he almost thinks himself back in his small, messy London flat on an ordinary day. Then he blinks open his eyes, and sees Jon sleeping soundly next to him in bed, and the bright white cleanliness of the room, and regrettably remembers the facade they’re inhabiting. Well, at least it's a relatively pleasant facade, Martin thinks, before he leans down to kiss Jon awake, and get them both into the bath. 

* * *

“I don’t know how exactly he meant for us to find anything in here,” Martin huffs once he and Jon are washed, dressed (wearing the clothes they found placed on their bed), and trudging through the tall corridors of Upton House to dinner. Trudging isn’t the word though, is it? Trudging is how they got through the wasteland. Here, their dress shoes make nice little _click-clacks_ on the polished stone floor, and the air smells pleasant and light, not weighed down with the odor of terror and death. 

“I can’t exactly remember either,” Jon replies, a slight quaver in his voice. Martin noticed it when they woke up, Jon seems weaker somehow. It’s one of the reasons Martin convinced Jon to take Salesa up on the dinner invite, their empty bellies and lightheadedness from hunger notwithstanding. If Salesa has been living here, out of harm’s way, perhaps he knew something Martin and Jon didn’t that could help them with putting an end to this whole thing. Though, Martin had to admit, the feeling of being able to forget the calamity and horror raging on outside was… alluring, to say the very least. 

Jon staggered a bit. “I hope we find it soon though, this house may as well be its own domain…” 

Martin swooped in to catch him quickly, “You okay?” he asked, concerned.

“Yes, I… I’m fine,” Jon leaned himself on Martin’s arm, regaining his balance. 

“Let me know if you want to go back to the room, okay?”

“It’s alright,” Jon reassured to the best of his ability. “Some warm food will probably do us both good.”

Martin nodded, holding Jon’s hand tight as they walked until they stumbled upon a set of very large double doors. After a quick questioning look at Jon, Martin pushed them open. Immediately, they were confronted with the smells of home cooking, a scent both of them had nearly forgotten. It was so overwhelmingly comforting it made Martin’s head spin, and if the way Jon squeezed his hand was any indication, it seemed to have a near identical effect on Jon. 

Salesa was sat at one of the many tall-backed chairs along the huge dining table. Like out of a fantasy, the table was covered in a myriad of dishes, all hot and inviting, and Jon nearly staggered again at the sight. 

“There you two are! Where have you been?” Salesa asked when he spotted them, that same exuberance still in his voice. “I had started to wonder if you’d snuck out and left us,” he chuckled, beckoning the two of them over. “Come in, you’re just in time.”

“Oh, thank you,” Martin said, Jon already walking ahead of him to take a seat. “Is this all for us?”

“No, no. It’s for me too,” Salesa paused for a laugh, then filled the silence with his own when neither Martin or Jon provided one.

“It looks delicious,” Jon swallows. 

Salesa smiled. “It is, believe me. Help yourselves.”

Soon the clanking of plates and silverware filled the huge dining room, and all three plates were piled full of nearly every dish on the table. Martin didn’t remember the last time he had seen this much food in one place. He was almost nervous to touch any of it, but Salesa helped him there, taking his plate and solving his indecisiveness for him, Martin muttering out ‘thank you’s’ and ‘oh, no that’s enough’s’, and ‘well, if you insist…’

“Seems like Annabelle picked the right outfits for you,” Salesa remarked, pouring Martin a glass of wine and shushing when Martin lifted a hand to tell him to stop. He moved on to Jon’s glass, providing it with the same treatment. “Much better than the rags you were wearing when you wandered in, don’t you think?” 

“Ah, yes,” Martin started as Jon buttered a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut and lips curling into a smile at the warm taste. “It’s certainly been very nice to wash up and sleep.”

Salesa poured himself a similarly tall glass. “Hah! I’d assume so, after how long wandering out there…” 

At the silence, Martin realized he was meant to supply an answer there. “Oh, uh,” he said. He had been too absorbed watching Jon eat. “Probably like… two months?” Martin looked to Jon for reassurance. 

Jon swallowed his wine and then answered with, “I mean, time doesn’t exactly work out there.”

“Of course, of course,” Salesa waved, spooning something that resembled potato gratin onto both Jon and Martin’s plates. “Well. You’re here now, aren’t you? A toast to that fact, at the very least.”

Martin was still apprehensive, but Salesa’s attitude and the way Jon was savouring every bite he took allowed him to settle into the jovial feeling in the air. He brought his (overly full) wine glass to Salesa’s after Jon, and clinked them together, taking a deep sip after. It was bold, and fruity, and Martin found himself enjoying the feeling of it warming his throat, even if he rarely drank wine himself. 

The evening passed with strangely ordinary conversation, during which they learned of Salesa’s years in the trade, the origins of how he created the house, and how Annabelle came to be co-inhabiting it with him, among other things. Unfortunately, Salesa also confirmed what Jon and Martin had been fearful of: since Upton House wasn’t affected by the fears, Jon couldn’t exactly feed the Eye whilst they occupied it.

“Yeah, that’s... probably not too good for me,” Jon said, sitting back in the delicate dining room chair. 

“It’s probably not too good that you can’t go without it, either,” Martin said, half into his wine glass. He estimated he’d drank nearly two and a half glasses at this point, but there was no real way of telling-- whenever the contents got below halfway, Salesa took it upon himself to tilt some more into Martin’s glass. 

“I know that as well, Martin,” Jon said, slightly clipped. At the look on Martin’s face, however, Jon softened slightly. 

Martin cleared his throat. “I’m only trying to look out for you, for us,” he replied airily, finishing the last bite of the crab cake he had been picking at. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” said Jon, sighing. “I’m just… feeling a bit unwell, I think.” 

“Still?” Martin said, concern seeping into his tone. “The food didn’t help?”

“Ah, it’s just a bit of a headache, might not have been a great idea to eat so much so fast,” managing a smile, Jon stood, leaning against the huge table for support. Martin was at his side instantly, trying to support him. 

“Here, I’ll take you back to the room--”

“I’m alright, Martin, I can walk back on my own. You stay and finish dinner.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s not a big deal, come on--”

“Martin,” Jon says, obviously a bit embarrassed at the sudden display of affection in front of their host. “It’s really fine, I’d like some time to think, anyway,” his smile is more genuine this time, though Martin recognized the look as one that said ‘you’re fretting too much again’. He still waited another few seconds before letting go of Jon’s arm. 

“Thank you for dinner,” Jon said to Salesa, who smiled and waved dismissively. “Sorry to leave early.”

“Not a problem, not a problem, I do hope you feel better soon. Though it seems like Martin here takes very good care of you, does he not?”

“Yes, he does,” said Jon, fond. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner.”

Martin sat back down only after the huge doors had shut and Jon’s footsteps had receded down the hall. It didn’t take long for the tricky silence following a group of three turning into two to settle over them. Martin began pushing at the corn salad on his dish. Flicking his gaze up to start a conversation on something innocuous, he found Salesa staring at him expectantly, knowingly. 

“Uh,” Martin blinked, “W-what is it?”

Salesa’s smile grew wider, “You do care about him a great deal, don’t you?”

“I do,” Martin answered without hesitation. 

“Mm,” Salesa elaborated, unhelpfully. “Then you should know that he can’t stay here like this for long, separated from his patron,” he said it as he picked a piece of flaky fish off his plate and chewed it, as if it didn’t make Martin’s heart sink with despair to hear.

“I… gathered as much, yeah,” Martin swallows, pushing his plate away slightly. He opens his mouth to say more, but finds that he can’t dredge up the words over the feeling in his heart. Despite everything-- the awful state of the world, the people still in it they had promised to save, their friends still out there in it, and the dubious nature of this entire place, with its Web ties and the way it was so incredibly different than the world he and Jon had been surviving for the past however long… he really had had the smallest feeling that maybe he and Jon could stay here together. 

Salesa watched Martin’s expression. When he surmised that Martin wasn’t going to further elaborate, he added “I should also inform you that I don’t believe your plan to set the world back will end well for your, ah, _beau._ ” 

“What do you mean?” Martin forced himself to say.

“I mean that Jon will very likely not survive the change back.”

Martin stills. “How can you know that?”

Salesa leaned back lazily, folding his hands over his stomach. Martin attempted to shoot him a glare of resentment, but finds Salesa has closed his eyes when he continues with, “Oh, I don’t know for sure. I doubt anyone really can say. Nothing like this has ever happened before, after all!” The hearty laugh that leaves Salesa’s chest does little to soothe the despondency that has taken up residence in Martin’s entire body. 

To Martin’s woe, Salesa continues, as nonchalant as ever. “No, I don’t think it will end at all well for him,” he shrugs, “or you, for that matter, Martin.” 

A few moments of silence stretch out before them, Salesa obviously enjoying digesting his dinner while Martin’s entire life essentially crumbles down around him. It’s stupid, theres no reason he shouldn’t have been expecting this, but he haven’t really had time to stop and think; even if they had, Jon’s insistence on ‘crossing that bridge when they get to it’ has rubbed off on Martin, and now he’s facing the consequences. 

“What can I do?” Martin says, small. 

Salesa grunts. “I couldn’t tell you. I have my own plan, which I have told you. I’m not keen on getting into the business of telling other people what to do with themselves, at least not for free,” he chortles. “Maybe Miss Annabelle can help you in that department, if you can find her.”

“What do you mean? She’s here, isn’t she?” Martin squints. 

“Oh yes, of course she is here,” Salesa elaborates. “She is, however, in the habit of not being seen unless she wants to be.”

“Right, of course,” Martin grits, annoyance layering over the worry blanketing him. 

“I am sorry I cannot be of much help, Martin, but I find it is best for men to make these decisions themselves, no?” Salesa says, giving Martin a pat on the shoulder that nearly knocks all the air out of his lungs. “You’ll think of something, you seem like a smart boy. You’ve managed to make it this far, after all!”

Martin nods absentmindedly. Salesa is right, he has made it this far. Letting it all fall to the wayside now would be pointless. If fixing the world means losing Jon, then Martin will just have to find another way. 

* * *

It seems Salesa was right about Annabelle turning up when it’s convenient for her, because Martin nearly has a heart attack when she steps out from behind a corner in the hallway Martin’s walking down.

“ _Christ--”_ Martin jumps, clutching his chest. “Don’t do that!”

Annabelle rolls her eyes. “Did you enjoy dinner?” she asks. 

Martin tries to steady his breathing. “Yes, it was… nice.”

“Just nice?”

“What do you want, Annabelle?” 

Annabelle falls into step with him as Martin continues walking, “Oh, I dunno. Fishing for a compliment on the food I spent all day preparing, maybe?”

Martin stills slightly. “You cooked all that?”

“More or less.”

“Well…” Martin hesitates, obviously weighing the pros and cons of telling the evil spider lady that he enjoyed her cooking. “Thank you, it was... appreciated.”

“You are really bad at this,” Annabelle frowns.

Martin waves his hands frustratedly. “Is that the only thing you came and found me for?”

“Found you…” she repeats. “Who's to say I wasn’t just wandering the halls? I live here too, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I also know that you wouldn’t have come and found me unless you needed something from me.”

She makes a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh next to him. “Mikaele tell you that?” When Martin doesn’t respond, she continues, “Yes, all right. I wanted to make you a proposal.”

“Proposal.” Martin says, matter of fact.

“A suggestion, proposition, whatever you wanna call it,” she explains, coming to a stop in front of one of the enormous hallway windows. The backlighting of the nearly set sun paints her dark skin and cloudy blonde crew cut in a light befitting of her demeanor. “Or maybe a solution, depends on you, though.”

“Okay-- you’re being incredibly ominous, any way we could have this conversation not in riddles, or...?”

Annabelle sighs, her face falling into a pout. “You’re no fun. At least your boyfriend is scared of me.” 

Martin stops. “Is this about Jon?” he asks. Annabelle’s grin immediately returns to her face.

“Very good,” she praises. “Yes, it just so happens that it is.” 

“How can I trust you?” Martin asks, and Annabelle sighs. 

“You can’t, plain and simple,” she says dismissively. “That’s not the point, though.”

“And what is?”

“The point is,” she takes a deep breath, ”that I know you’re not stupid, no matter how much you act it.” Martin opens his mouth to protest but she continues, “I know you’re not going to choose the world over your little Archivist boyfriend.”

That seems to shut Martin up. Sensing she has his attention, Annabelle continues, pulling at the loose thread, beginning to slowly walk down the hall. She knows she’s got him when Martin waits a bit, then follows dutifully behind her. She smiles. “That’s what you’re going to be presented with, if you decide to continue.” 

“Decide?” Martin manages to say. Incredible how at one mention of Jon’s safety Martin’s entire demeanor shrinks into something small, hanging off her every word. 

“Yes, because I’m giving you a choice here. You are welcome to stay here in Upton House for as long as you like, eternity, even, with no interference from me or any other avatars,” she pulls a box of cigarettes from the back pocket of her ripped jeans. 

Martin watches as she lights the cigarette, takes a drag and then puffs out. She stares back at him, blankly. 

“...And?” Martin gestures for her to continue. 

Annabelle takes the cigarette from her mouth, “Pushy…” she mutters. “For the low price of a small favour.” 

“And what is that?” 

“Can’t tell you.”

Martin’s about ready to tear his hair out. Somehow talking to her is even worse than talking to Jon when he’s gone all cryptic and avatar-y. It’s infuriating. They’ve reached the door of the room Jon and Martin are staying in by now. 

“You think I’m just going to say yes to some plan you came up with when I don’t even know what it is?” Martin asks, clearly done with this conversation. “No thank you, not interested--”

“You’ll choose the sake of the world over Jon?” Annabelle asks plainly, the hand holding her cigarette resting on her hip. “Come on Martin, anyone can tell you won’t. You think you will, because you think you’re a good person, but when it comes down to it, that split second decision, I know what you’ll pick. He does, too. That’s why he’s not going to let you choose.”

“How do you know that?” Martin asks, sounding like he actually believes her… does he actually believe her? 

“I just know. You know it, too,” she says, and something in her voice leads Martin to trust that she isn’t lying. She has every reason to be lying, she’s never done a single good thing for them-- so why does Martin feel so damn compelled to believe the words spilling from her lips, her fanged teeth? 

_Because it’s what you’ve been denying all this time,_ comes a voice in Martin’s head. _She’s laying out all your insecurities and giving you a cure for them. It’s what the Web does, it’s not even clever._ No, it isn’t clever. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t some truth to it. 

“What I need from him won’t even hurt,” Annabelle adds, sensing she’s got Martin properly invested now. “It won’t hurt you, either. It’ll be a bit unorthodox, but he’ll survive it,”

“Surviving something is a pretty low bar.”

“It’s more than you can say for what’ll happen if you keep up your journey to London,” she smirks, knowing that she's got him for sure now. It’s written all over his face.

“Think about it, okay?” she says when Martin doesn’t say anything in response. “Mull it over.”

Martin slips in the door with one final look at Annabelle. 

“Goodnight, Martin,” she grins. 

The door closes with a _click._

* * *

The room, like the rest of Upton House, is peacefully quiet. Not the eerie silence that sometimes brackets the outside, but a comforting, drolling hum of silence that Martin savours. He undresses and pulls on the pajamas left for him on the bed, past caring that they were probably left by Annabelle, and how providing the two of them with clothes is probably part of her grand scheme of keeping them under her thumb. It doesn’t even sound that bad to Martin to have someone taking care of them like that. Nothing wrong with it. There’s still nothing stopping them from leaving, and Martin isn’t afraid. 

The bed is warm when Martin slides under the covers. Jon is fast asleep, small breath even and adorable and Martin presses a chaste kiss to his soft hair. Jon must have showered again before getting into bed, his hair damp and sweet-smelling. 

Martin shuffles closer to spoon Jon, careful not to wake him. He settles in and allows himself to lean into the feeling of happiness he finds with Jon in his arms. How could he ever leave this behind? How are they going to go back to slogging through awful nightmare landscapes and killing friends when Jon is so soft and small and perfect in his arms? 

Annabelle’s voice sneaks its way into his mind, telling him they don’t have to leave. 

Maybe they don't, Martin thinks. The words are his, and that frightens him even more than if they weren’t. But... 

Is Jon really not going to let Martin save him? If Martin really thinks about it, it does start to seem like the kind of thing Jon would do. What would Martin do then? He doesn’t know, and if he doesn’t know now, he isn’t confident he’s going to know when the time comes. If he takes Annabelle’s offer, can he make it so he doesn’t have to choose?

But no, all those people still out there, suffering. Martin can’t leave them, not when he vowed to fix all this. But that was before, before Martin knew that there was a place he and Jon could just exist, just _be._ Be together. 

Don’t they deserve that?

Sleep pulls at him, but Martin’s mind is whirring with possibilities. The biggest of which is the recurring thought that seems to drown everything else out: he can’t lose Jon. And if that’s the big conclusion, if he puts that above everything else, then…

He blinks down at Jon, so peaceful and human.

_Human._

Something shifts in Martin’s mind, something breaks, quietly and without any fanfare. Without Martin even fully realizing it himself. 

He tucks in next to Jon, holds him close and firm, and lets the clean smell of Jon’s shampoo and the laundry detergent from the pillowcases empty his mind, and allow him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martins on the first train to bad idea central but arent we all
> 
> i have this whole thing outlined and will hopefully have time to get to it between the million other things happening this month :'>
> 
> thank you for reading!! comments are very much appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter, as well as all chapters after it, will be nsfw! 
> 
> as always, enjoy!

Jon wakes up to Martin kissing the back of his neck, balmy lips against soft, warm skin, and he smiles. It feels so long ago now, but when they had lived in the cabin for those few blithe weeks, Martin had gotten in the habit of waking him up in such a fashion, and Jon had, on more than one occasion, pretended to still be asleep so as not to interrupt. 

The feeling is as electrifying now as it was all those months ago, and Jon relaxes into it. Waking up is slowly beginning to become less and less unusual the longer they stay here. His focus slips into a blissful sensation of calm, free of constantly racing thoughts, his only concern the warmth Martin was painting across his skin. He was, after all, quite adept at it, and far be it from Jon to stifle Martin’s hard work.

Martin flicked a hot tongue against the sensitive skin above Jon’s shoulder, and Jon shivered, unable to help himself. The arm wrapped around his waist pulled him closer to Martin’s stomach and Jon hummed happily, the feeling of being moved around effortlessly was not one he was particularly averse to, and something Martin was exceedingly good at. 

“You’re not very practiced at this whole ‘pretending to be asleep’ thing, are you?” came Martin’s voice from behind, his warm breath on Jon’s exposed neck. 

“Good morning,” Jon replied, voice still groggy with sleep. All gravely and rough-- it made Martin’s heart flutter. 

It was their fifth day in the house, away from the apocalypse; though technically, it was their third, seeing as they had slept through the first two and a half days. It was still strange to wake up so peacefully in bed with one another-- it was strange to sleep at all, but the quiet mornings were too good not to savour. 

“Mm, hi,” Martin smiled back, not relenting in his crusade on Jon’s neck. He pushed Jon’s loose sleep shirt over one shoulder, and gave it a few pecks before gently biting the area as a joke. 

“ _Martin,_ ” Jon breathed, halfway between scolding and something else. Martin hummed, innocent, and trailed his hand down Jon’s side, slow and deliberate, and plucked absentmindedly at the hem of Jon’s shirt. 

Martin knew that Jon didn't always like to be touched, so he let his hand linger, waiting for approval, not minding the teasing that the action offered. If Jon was alright with it, he’d let Martin know: the sound of Jon laying out exactly what he wanted done to him was not particularly one that Martin minded, in any case.

Jon’s small hand covered Martin’s own and pushed it up higher, and Martin laughed lightly into Jon’s shoulder. The man in Martin’s arms shivered as the hand trailed up and over to his stomach, squeezing the soft flesh there. He let a few fingers dip below the waistband of Jon’s sweats, only to gather more to squeeze at. Martin’s eyes flicked up to the side of Jon’s face, his eyelashes fluttering against Jon’s shoulder. 

“Do you like that?” Martin asked, pure curiosity in his voice. 

“Yes,” came the reply, immediate. “Martin--”

“What is it?” 

A frustrated moan escaped Jon’s lips and Martin chuckled, continuing to prod at Jon’s stomach. “Do you want to…” 

Jon nodded against the pillow quickly, and Martin couldn’t help that his smile grew wider. 

He pressed another kiss to his shoulder before moving his hand up Jon’s stomach and past his ribs to cup Jon’s chest. Jon’s breasts were small and perky, and Martin had discovered quickly how much Jon enjoyed having them touched. It was something they had talked about extensively, what worked for them and what didn’t (disappointments and surprises from both Martin and Jon abound)-- but eventually settled on a resounding yes in regards to how Jon felt about having his chest touched. 

As it turned out, Jon was more comfortable with being given attention there than being touched between his legs most of the time, but Martin was more than alright with that. He adored Jon’s chest, adored it even more when he could make Jon feel so good just from playing with it. Especially since, after surgery, Martin couldn’t say the same about himself; Living vicariously was all very alive and well. 

“Your hands are cold,” Jon murmured. 

“Oh, sorry--”

“N-no, it’s… nice.”

Martin grinned, moving to pinch a nipple between his not-warm fingers, and Jon made a high pitched sound in the back of his throat, something Martin would have never expected him capable of all those years ago. But Jon was his now, and it made Martin endlessly happy to be able to have this effect on him. Jon, so pilant and soft and willing under his touch, chasing his pleasure and pressing into Martin’s touch. 

“Alright?” Martin asked, mostly as a formality. 

“Yes, Martin, I,” Jon breathed, mouth hanging open as Martin rubbed at the small, sensitive nipple. “I- I like it, it’s…” he closed his mouth suddenly to stifle the rather embarrassing sound that Martin pulled from his lips. It gave Martin great joy to strip that stuffy eloquence away, to cause Jon to resort to such base phrases.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” Martin asked. “Otherwise I can just keep going--”

Jon shook his head quickly, “I want to,” he stammered. Martin smiled and nodded, giving Jon the room to slip a hand down his pants, and Jon let out a small sound upon getting his fingers on himself. 

“I bet you’re wet, aren’t you? Always so sensitive when I touch here,” Martin pinched a nipple to emphasize, and Jon keened. “So adorable, Jon. Look at you…”

“Martin, I,” Jon started. “Let me…,” he turned onto his back, spreading his thighs wider, giving himself easier access. Shoulders rolled back, head resting on the pillow right next to Martin’s, their foreheads pressed close-- Jon looked so incredibly beautiful like this, all under Martin’s hands, all for him. 

They hadn’t exactly had time to do such things since they left the safehouse and stepped into the nightmare raging on outside. Never a right time, never a moment of privacy. Martin didn’t know if a house occupied by the Web was exactly private, either, but he would take anything over _Elias._

It was so much to Martin to have Jon under his fingers, allowing Martin to touch him, enjoying the way Martin made him feel. _His_ Jon. It was almost too much, and Martin’s heart swelled with adoration at the sight: Jon, face scrunched up in pleasure and concentration, touching himself all because of Martin.

Martin leaned in and pressed his lips to Jon’s all at once, and Jon let out a small sound of surprise into his mouth before kissing back. Pushing his tongue past Jon’s parted lips, Martin brought a hand to rub at Jon’s until-now neglected breast. 

Jon shuddered shallowly, bucking his hips up into his own hand and Martin grinned into the kiss. He pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to Jon’s hot cheek, and then moved his head down to rest against Jon’s side, pushing Jon’s sleep shirt up teasingly, exposing his chest to the cold of the room. Jon watched through half-lidded, hungry eyes as Martin brought his tongue to Jon’s reddened nipple, coaxing it into a stiff peak again. 

“ _Martin,”_ Jon moaned and Martin continued, bringing his hand to give attention to the nipple he didn’t have his mouth around, and Jon all but squeaked, shivering under the overwhelming touch. Martin kept up the motions until Jon arched his back slightly, pushing Martin harder onto himself, and by extension, his hand into his clit. Jon came with a small whimper, Martin pinching at his nipple, watching Jon’s face change. 

After a few moments, Jon collapsed, blissed out, onto the mattress, trying to catch his breath. He smiled down at Martin, maneuvering him up to kiss him, which Martin did happily. Martin sat up and slid Jon’s hand out of his sweatpants, taking his fingers into his mouth, licking it clean. His tongue slid over the burn scars that wrapped around Jon’s fingers, and Martin hummed, contended. Jon was a blushing mess by the time Martin had finished, and Martin grinned. 

“How was that?” Martin asked, settling back down next to Jon in bed, pulling the covers up over him. 

Jon nodded sleepily. “Good. Very… good.” 

Martin giggled, “I’m glad. You’re very cute, you know that?” he pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, and Jon ‘hmm’d’ into Martin’s chest. He fell asleep to the feeling of Martin’s now warm hands carding through his dark curls, and the soft peach fuzz on Martin’s arms even more comforting than the goose feather comforter.

* * *

When Jon next wakes, the first thing he notices is the absence of Martin’s presence next to him. It’s not like him to fall back asleep, but he’s also not used to morning sex so good he drifts back into dreams afterwards, so he figures he’ll allow himself a pass this time. 

He’s hungry, both for real food and a statement, and it’s making him unpleasantly dizzy. He considers staying under the warm covers for a while longer to see if Martin ambles back into the room with breakfast-- lunch? He has no idea what time it is-- but ultimately decides against it, reminding himself not to get too comfortable with their current circumstances.

Upon pulling himself out of bed, he runs a hot shower (something he’s trying to savour while he can), and lets the hot steam and water warm him up. It’s not particularly cold in the house, but the warmth seeps into his bones and allows him to relax, something he’s not felt in a long while. Jon almost forgets about his hunger and need to Know for a few short minutes as the water heats his skin and calms his constantly racing thoughts. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, he finds the room’s closet full of soft, comfortable clothes, and pulls on one of the joggers he finds. He flicks through the barrage of sweaters and cardigans and flannel hanging up along the rack, but settles on pulling on Martin’s sweatshirt that he’s left laying across a chair. It’s much too big for him, but Jon figures it's a small price to pay to enjoy Martin’s warm familiar scent for the rest of the day. 

A tape recorder sits on the small desk by the window, and Jon stares at it for a second before he reaches and shoves it in his (Martin’s) sweatshirt pocket, and wanders out into the vast halls in search of the original owner of the sweatshirt along with some form of sustenance.

It’s odd, being in Upton House once more, under such incredibly different circumstances. The building is enormous, with its tall ceilings and windows that reach up to them. It seems like the whole place is even larger than he remembers. Back then, when he had snuck off from his grandmother to squirrel himself away in a corner and read the current book he was working on, unenthusiastic about some old, weird house. 

If the house was weird back then, it was certainly moreso now, Jon figured as his footsteps reverberated across the tall ceilings. Though so was he, mostly a monster and all that. 

Of course he was nervous about his dependency on the Eye, and how he felt when the connection was temporarily severed. It was just another thing Jon willed himself not to think about, but the dizziness in his head wasn’t only to be attributed to the emptiness in his stomach. 

And Martin, who seemed to enjoy being here so much. They were both apprehensive of the Web, of course, but the comfort they’d experienced in the last few days was hard to argue against. He couldn’t Know anything here, but he didn’t have to pull at that familiar part of himself to gather that Martin wanted to remain here. 

Jon would be lying if the idea wasn’t appealing. But it was unrealistic, and therefore not worth entertaining. They _couldn’t_ stay here. Well, at least Jon couldn’t-- though Martin wasn’t going to agree to leaving him alone anytime soon, Jon knew that much. 

Well, he certainly hoped.

* * *

Jon eventually stumbled upon a small sunroom off the dining room. Both Martin and Salesa are sat in the brightness, the sun halfway down in the sky and spilling light through the windows that make up the walls. Martin pulls a chair out for Jon, offering pastries and tea, apologizing and explaining that he meant to head back to check on him earlier, but got caught up. Jon shakes his head understandingly, waving as Salesa pours soy milk into Jon’s tea, which threatens to overflow onto the small saucer. It’s all so delicate and prim, Jon is hesitant to handle any of the silverware lest it crack under his touch. 

Using tongs that appear to be made of nothing short of sterling silver, Martin loads Jon’s small plate up with all sorts of croissants, macaroons, and at least three different types of puff pastries. Salesa isn’t any help, and Jon is promptly overwhelmed by the amount of food presented to him. It’s all very good, of course; Jon flakes off a piece of an almond croissant that all but melts on his tongue, and it’s sweet of Martin to look after him in this way, just… new to him.

“Feeling any better today?” Salesa asks just as Jon takes a bit of a caramel macaroon. Jon chews quickly and covers his mouth before answering with, “More or less.”

“Glad to hear it! “Salesa claps his hands. “Martin here has been wringing his hands all morning over you,” Martin throws Salesa a glare so exaggerated Jon can’t help his lips twitching up at the sight. Just how long have they been talking for? If Jon didn’t know any better he’d have clocked Salesa as an old friend of the family. 

“I was just… worried,” Martin says, half to Salesa. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Jon nods, “It’s nothing you need to worry too much about."

“But I do worry,” Martin frowns. 

“I know,” Jon places a hand on Martin’s arm, a gesture so earnest that he almost surprises himself. He gives Martin a smile he hopes passes for comforting and adds, “What have you two been discussing?” 

Salesa tosses a small eclair into his mouth and chews, swallows before answering with “I was informing Martin here about how beautiful the gardens are! You should take a stroll sometime,” he smiles coyly before adding “ _very_ romantic, you know. Lots of little hideaways and all that.”

Jon sputters a bit on the tea, and Martin pats him gently on the back, an apology for Salesa in the look he gives Jon. “The rose garden sounds lovely,” he tries changing the subject as best he can manage. 

“Yes, yes,” Salesa nods, “Annabelle takes very good care of them, she does.” 

“Speaking of, where is she?” Jon asks.

“Annabelle? Oh, I have no idea,” Salesa shrugs, sipping his dark tea. “She’ll turn up when she feels like it, I’m sure.” 

Jon turns to Martin. “And you haven’t seen her at all?” 

“No, not since she walked us in,” Martin says casually. He doesn’t know why he lies, but the sound doesn’t feel as wrong in his mouth as he had expected. “Isn’t it better this way?” he adds, “Out of sight, out of mind?” 

“I suppose so,” Jon says. “Though I’m not too keen on…”

“Not being able to see?” Salesa finishes, helpfully.

“Yes.” 

“Mm,” Salesa leans forward. “Why don’t you take a walk, stretch your legs, get some fresh air?” he gestures to the expanse of vibrant green on the other side of the glass. “I think it just might do you some good.”

Jon nods, finishing his tea. They make their way out into the gardens following Salesa’s insistence that he’ll clean up lunch, that the two of them should just enjoy their time together, with a confusingly salacious wink. 

“Who knew the evil artifact dealer had such a knack for entertaining,” Jon muses as the glass door shuts behind them and they start across the grounds. Neither of them have stepped outside since they came in days ago, and the sun on their skin is a sorely missed and very welcome sensation. 

“He’s not _really_ evil, is he?” Martin says and Jon gives him a look. “What? I mean, don’t shoot the messenger and all that... right?” 

“You just don’t want to admit that you’ve taken a liking to him,” Jon smiles slyly.

Martin makes a small noise of protest as his face colors. “No, it’s just that it's… nice to talk to someone again, c-casually.” 

“Basira and I weren’t enough for you?” Jon asks, but his tone is light, teasing. He knows how it must feel for Martin to be able to have someone to chat with, to have tea with noon at. It makes him feel all the worse to know he’s going to have to take it away from him because of his own selfish needs. 

“You know what I mean,” Martin sighs. He slips his hand into Jon’s as a polite way to change the subject. “Besides, you know I wouldn’t trade anything for you.” 

“Y-yes, I,” Jon says, caught off guard slightly. “I love you,” he manages as a thank you. The words don’t feel wrong, but foreign. He’s still not used to something like this, and certainly didn’t have much time to adjust before he made the world go wrong.

Martin beams. “I love you, too,” he gives Jon’s hand a light squeeze, and Jon looks up at him. 

He looks so lovely like this, dark orange hair haloed by the half-set sun, freckles peeking up over tanned skin. Martin was meant to be seen in the sun, Jon thinks. All the indulgences of afternoon tea and french pastries and a walk through fields of flowers; these normalities of the sunshine, and sleeping in, and sharing showers and kissing one another to sleep and Jon’s hand in his. Martin has earned it all, and Jon’s chest tightens because in Martin’s smile he sees the sadness of the knowledge of how temporary all this is.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says suddenly. 

Martin blinks at him, tilting his head ever so slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“I can’t give you this,” Jon starts, letting his hand fall from Martin’s. “You’re going to have to go back to that awful world, because of me. I mean you don’t have to follow me, I won’t make you do anything-- “

“Don’t be silly, Jon,” Martin says, chiding. “You’re my world.”

“It’s… I’m not being silly, Martin, It’s been weighing on me since we got here. I know you’ve noticed it too. I _can’t_ stay here, Martin.”

“Do you want to?”

Jon stills. “What?”

“Do you want to stay here?” Martin repeats.

“I… I don’t know.” Jon licks his lips nervously. After a beat, he continues “It’s so nice to be with you like this. I didn’t know it could be this nice, to feel normal.” 

“It is nice.”

Jon is beginning to panic properly now. “I know I can’t, but I want-- It’s…” he takes a breath, forcing his breathing to steady. “I wish we could,” he finally says.

“Okay,” Martin stares. 

Jon isn’t looking at him. “I’m sorry Martin, I know we should just enjoy what we--”

Martin brings his hands to Jon’s cheeks. “Jon, It’s alright. You’re okay, we still have time.”

“O-okay,” Jon nods, placing his own shaking hands over Martin’s. “Okay. You’re right, I’m sorry.” 

“Are you going to be alright?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I-- I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Martin says softly. “Come here,” he brings Jon into a big hug, which Jon returns tightly. “Come here, I love you so much.”

“I know, I love you too.” Jon says, not having to think on the words this time. They flow from his lips like the hot tears down his cheeks. 

At a sniffle into his shoulder, Martin holds Jon’s even tighter. “Oh, Jon,” he breaths. “It’s going to be okay, I’ll make sure we’re okay.”

“Okay,” Jon says, his body trying to process what crying feels like after so long without it. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s cried. On the drive to Scotland, perhaps, or in Martin’s arms on that first night in the cabin, but he’s nearly forgotten how to after so long being conditioned to fear everything around him all the time.

Martin sits them on a garden bench in the shade, and Jon lets himself weep for the things they came so very close to having, just for a while. The soft, familiar hands in his grey-streaked curls keep his breathing from devolving into sobs, and the gentle breeze on his skin keeps him mostly in his body. 

Martin is patient, never faltering from the way he holds Jon, sure and safe. Jon wipes a hand on his sleeve, and then remembers with a start that he’s still wearing Martin’s hoodie. 

“S-sorry,” he sniffs, a tiny smile finding its way into his voice. “Forgot I was…”

Martin looks down at him and stares for a second before letting out a laugh. “It’s alright, I’m sure it’s seen worse. I hardly think your snot compares to whatever clung to it in the wasteland.” Jon finds it in himself to laugh back, his voice still wet and brittle. 

“Are you okay to walk?” Martin asks. When Jon nods, Martin pulls them both up and interlaces their fingers again. “Come on then, I still want to see those rose gardens.” 

Martin’s sure tone has Jon following him gladly, strung along happily by where their warm hands meet.

* * *

The balcony on the second floor offers a wonderful view of the sun setting behind the trees that encompass the grounds of Upton House. After dinner a few nights later, Jon finds he misses the feeling of the warm breeze, and opts out of dessert in favour of it. The weariness of not Knowing still tugs at Jon’s mind, but coupled with every other pleasant feeling, finds that it has faded into more of a numbing fog in the back of his brain rather than the stabbing pain it began as. 

It’s allowed him to appreciate the taste of food again, the banquets seem to be almost an every night occurrence here, and though Jon does wonder where the food comes from, he finds he doesn’t feel the itch to know as he had on the outside. It’s incredible, how much difference a week can make, he thinks. He’s considerably weaker, unable to stay awake for as long as he used to, though whenever doubt clouds his mind he turns his thoughts to the way Martin had looked in the sunlight of the gardens, and he can ignore the feelings for a while longer. 

They’ve taken more walks in the days since they first stepped onto the grounds, and each serves to quiet Jon’s mind more than the last. Earlier that day, Martin had convinced Jon to take off his shoes with him, to roll up his trouser legs and feel the cool grass under his feet. Salesa had even joined them a handful of times on Jon’s insistence, he found the extra company to be very welcome, and Salesa’s stories of his various exploits kept the mood lighter than usual. 

“There you are,” comes a voice from behind Jon suddenly, the warm light from inside pooling out to the balcony when Martin pushes the curtains aside and opens the glass door. 

“Hello,” Jon says. “Was dessert as good as dinner?” 

Martin makes to pat his stomach as he lets out an exaggerated sigh. Jon laughs at the gesture. “Saved you some, in case you were feeling up to it later. Annabelle makes a mean cheesecake.” 

Jon’s smile falls slightly as Martin comes up to stare out over the balcony with him. “Annabelle made that?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Martin says. “She’s cooked most of the food we’ve had here, believe it or not.” 

“You didn’t tell me that.” 

“I didn’t?” Martin looks confused, trying to recall.. “I’m sorry, I thought I had…”

“You’ve been talking to Annabelle?”

“Not really, I just catch her in the halls sometime,” Martin says, turning back to look over the grounds. “She’s mostly harmless anyway.”

Jon shys away from the arm Martin has around his shoulders. “Harmless? Martin, she’s Web--” 

“Jon, don’t be angry.” Martin says in such a tone that makes Jon feel like he’s overreacting. But no, the Web isn’t something to be messing around with, and Martin knows better.

“I just find it strange that you’ve been consorting with spiders without telling me--”

Martin cuts him off, “Jon, just drop it, okay? I haven’t sat down to have tea with her or anything. Just a few hello’s here and there. It’s nothing,” sensing the tension, he adds “I promise.” 

Jon slowly lowers his shoulders, moving back to stand close to Martin; he shouldn’t have assumed. “Sorry, I was just... surprised.” 

“It’s okay, I should’ve told you sooner. But I promise there’s nothing strange going on. She’s kept her distance, and so have I.” Martin explains. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Jon answers. “I do, I’m sorry.”

Martin pulls him close, a tight side-hug pushing Jon into him. “Stop apologizing, it’s all right!” 

Jon smiles, the argument brushed aside. Martin has stayed by his side all this time, and knows firsthand how dangerous the Web is, he’s not about to start warming up to it now. He was being ridiculous. 

“It’s all okay now,” Martin adds, quieter. Jon pulls away to pull Martin down for a kiss. 

It’s slow and warm, as all of Martin’s kisses have been-- Are. As all of Martin’s kisses _are_. Nothing has changed about their kisses, Jon knows. The breeze is cool on his warm cheeks, and Jon parts his lips for Martin slightly, invitingly, and Martin takes the invitation gratefully. 

Suddenly, Jon pulls away, his lip stinging. “You alright?” Martin asks, worried. Jon brings a hand to his mouth, and finds it comes away wet, blood mixing with the saliva. He stares, confused. He knows Martin didn’t bite him, it felt like it was more of a prick than a bite. 

“Yes, sorry, I don’t know what…” Jon trails off as Martin brings his thumb to Jon’s lip, wiping the excess blood before sticking his finger into his own mouth. Jon colors at the sight, the intimacy and directness of it. 

“You taste delicious,” Martin supplies.

“Martin,” Jon snorts, bashful. Martin smiles that same soft, safe smile, and Jon thinks Martin’s canines look ever so slightly sharper. The thought is pushed from his mind as the intoxicating buzz returns, and Martin is kissing him again, Jon smiling into it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh martin, what sharp teeth you have :)
> 
> i was happy to get this up so soon after, as this chapter actually deals with some web-y stuff. salesa continues to be extremely fun to write in ways i didnt expect. 
> 
> thank you for reading!! comments = ♥︎


	3. Chapter 3

The sunroom is large, welcoming, and thrumming with light. It’s quiet as well, accessible only from the kitchen, and therefore sees little use except for Jon; and Salesa, occasionally, when he takes his tea somewhere other than his second floor suite. Jon enjoys the warmth of the sun, the way he can watch the breeze and the birds and not feel so caged anymore. 

Martin doesn’t like when Jon wanders outside alone-- Jon had discovered this when he’d gone on a stroll and found Martin running out to take him back inside, telling Jon how scared he was upon not being able to find him. Jon stays resolutely inside now, but is more than alright with that, reading or just watching shadows shift over the windows. 

His plan of leaving the house after a couple of nights of rest has somehow stretched into two weeks. It’s not something he’s especially proud of, giving in to Martin’s insistence in the form of kisses and hugs and love _. “Two more days, then we’ll set out again,”_ he had said, a week ago now, _“It’s just nice to see you like this.”_

In that time, Jon has found himself more and more inclined to the house, despite the nagging desire that still grips him, though even that is less firm now. He spends most of the daylight hours asleep nowadays, waking in the late afternoon when the sky outside their bedroom window is a deep orange. Martin is patient and understanding, telling him to rest as much as he likes. 

_“I’ll watch over you, don’t worry.”_

The walks they take through the gardens help to clear his mind, a balm for the dull hunger always present in it. Maybe it really is the fresh air helping, or maybe it’s the sureness of Martin’s hand in his. And Martin does seem so much happier now, so much lighter and less serious. Jon doesn’t have any statements to read so he doesn’t have to worry about the way the annoyed look Martin always gave him when he did tore at him so. 

Without Martin to remind him, Jon has slowly stopped wondering about the outside world, and what’s happening to it. Now his only memories come in periodic flashes of panic and clarity that Martin has learned to anticipate. With big hands and soft words, Martin is very adept at bringing Jon down-- His kisses even more intoxicating than Jon remembers, and he quickly lets all thoughts and sensations that aren’t _Martin_ slip from his mind.

He’s sat in the sunroom again, alone this time. Martin had hinted at a surprise and Jon had given in and humored him. It turned out that Salesa had a rather large collection of nonfiction on the bookshelves lining his huge room. About half were in French-- a language Jon was no longer able to read without help from the Eye-- though Salesa had said Jon was more than welcome to the ones written in English. 

They’re not quite like statements-- statements are short and extremely personal and rife with fear-- Jon knows their taste well. He pulls what little negative life experiences he can out of the books he’s given, as terrible as it makes him feel to look forward to the turn of a page revealing suffering and hurt. 

Reading in various different spots around the house has led him to discover that the all-encompassing windows of the sunroom grant him the most chance at gleaning anything of actual sustenance from the words in the books. Perhaps it is the closeness to the outside (the air here and the air in the wasteland are still both air after all), or just a stroke of luck that the effects of the house’s safety seem to weaken here, but Jon doesn’t question it like he once would have. 

His reading is cut short by Martin coming in through the kitchen doors, very obviously holding something behind his back. 

“Hello,” Jon says, putting the book down in his lap. “What have you got there?”

Martin immediately deflates, disappointed. “How did you know?” he reveals a small rectangle covered in bright wrapping paper. “It was _meant_ to be a surprise…”

“Should’ve been less obvious about it then,” Jon says. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Martin,”

“No, no, none of that,” Martin cuts him off. He kneels beside Jon’s chair and holds out the present to him. “You’ll see after you open it. Go on.”

Jon stares at Martin for a moment, further protest clearly on his lips, but that familiar prick of curiosity manages to win out. He undoes the very neat wrapping and pulls out from it a small leather book-- hand-bound by the look of it. 

“What’s…” Jon starts, but trails off as he flips through the pages. 

They’re statements. 

“Martin, is this--” Jon asks, though he already knows the answer. The book is almost warm under his fingertips, and all of a sudden that ache deep inside him is back full-force. “How did you get something like this?”

“I pulled a few strings,” Martin hums, visibly excited at seeing Jon so lively. “It’s the least I could do, since we’re staying here for longer than originally planned…”

Jon isn’t listening, the buzz in his head louder than anything. He needs to read, he needs to Know, it’s such a relief to have actual statements in front of him again. Martin places a hand over Jon’s, and Jon snaps his head up. 

“I was, uhm, thinking that we could…” Martin says. “That I could, uhm, read them to you? Would that still work?” 

Jon brightens immediately. “Yes,” he says, already moving to make room for Martin on the chair.

“Alright, lets see here…” 

They pass the evening like that, Martin speaking the words into Jon’s mind, into his heart and stomach, and alivevating just a little bit of the pressure there. Martin reads about half of the book before Jon is nodding off to it, the noise in his skull quieted, if only slightly. 

Martin flips the book closed, pushing a strand of hair from Jon’s face gingerly. Then, he stands, Jon cradled in his arms, and carries him back to their bedroom. 

* * *

“These aren’t going to be much to him,” Martin frowns. 

He’s sitting in Annabelle’s room, small and dark and cramped. She prefers it this way, as evidenced by the way she looks at ease in her old sofa in the corner by the cobwebs. Annabelle sips her tea as if she hadn’t heard Martin. Martin is used to this treatment by now, though it doesn’t make it any less annoying to talk to her. She swallows, then says: “They’ll keep him conscious, at least…”

“Annabelle--”

“What do you want me to do? It’s hardly my fault he’s been spoiled by constantly having them at his disposal whenever he so much as needs a _snack_ for the past who knows how long,” she sets down her tea, irritated by Martin’s constant dissatisfaction with everything she so generously gives to him and his awful little boyfriend. 

“All I’m saying,” Martin starts again, trying for civility, “is that it took about three statements before he was even drowsy. You said he’d be out in less than one. We got through more than half the thing before he felt okay enough to sleep.” 

“So, I overestimated him, big deal,” she shrugs. “Did you come to me with a solution for this or did you just want to complain? Because if it’s the latter you can take your stupid statements and--”

“He’s going to need more.”

Annabelle frowns. Leaning back, she sighs, the cobwebs shifting under her breath. “Okay, whatever. I’ll make more. Not like they’re that hard to come up with…”

“Thank you,” Martin says, finally sipping at his lukewarm tea. She can tell he’s obviously unhappy with the whole situation, but he’s already made a deal with the Spider, and he should be aware that their patron knows better than to just lay out the terms plain and simple. He can’t back out now anyway. Not if he wants his liability safe and sound. Speaking of...

“Is he ready for tonight?” she says into her tea. 

Martin is silent for a second. She’s about to open her mouth again when he answers with “I’m about to go deal with that now.” 

“Wonderful. Make sure he’s nice and prepared for me.”

“I will, just, give me a little time,” Martin doesn’t meet her eyes, but the cobwebs starting to lace themselves through his ginger hair are confirmation enough for her.

* * *

Martin balances the tray delicately as he walks down the hall. It’s loaded with all kinds of food, including a separate plate of just sugar cookies and more of those colorful macarons Jon liked so much at tea. He tries not to think of the powder he had tapped into them from the small vial Annabelle had handed him. There’s also sugar and much needed calories to make sure the experience isn’t too uncomfortable for Jon. The last thing Martin wants to do is hurt him, all this is just so the night proceeds without too much struggle or argument. If it all goes how Martin is hoping, Jon won’t even feel it, and Martin can focus instead on cuddling him and taking care of him afterwards. 

Like he always has. 

Martin is just wondering how he’s going to go about opening the door to their room with full hands when it swings open on it’s own. Well, that’s not true. Jon is standing in the doorway, wearing Martin’s oversized jumper again, and looking up at Martin with mild alarm. 

“Do you need help with that?” he asks in reference to the huge tray. 

Martin shakes his head and Jon steps aside, letting him inside to place the tray down on the bed. Thankfully, the tea along with the many small dishes contained on it do not tip over. Martin considers that a resounding success. 

“What’s all this?” Jon asks. 

“Well, I wanted to surprise you with dinner in bed. I assumed you’d still be asleep but I guess I was wrong,” Martin huffs, only a little disappointed. Jon chuckles. 

“Sorry for being awake.”

“I forgive you. Now, have a seat.” 

“On the bed?”

“That’s the point of the ‘in bed’ part, isn’t it?” 

Jon concedes, joining Martin on the bed, careful not to move too quickly and risk spilling anything onto the white duvet. He sees the spread proper now, and Martin has essentially picked out all of Jon’s favorites. Warm buttered bread, almond croissants, bright ripe fruits and biscuits upon biscuits. Jon wonders how on earth Martin walked from the kitchen without ruining the delicate presentation of it all. 

“You didn’t have to…” Jon starts, but is cut off by Martin bringing a spoonful of bread pudding topped with a vanilla creme to his mouth. Jon flushes slightly at the action. He hadn’t expected Martin to feed him, though he isn’t entirely complaining. 

“Shush, I wanted to. You deserve it,” Martin says, enjoying the way Jon’s eyes flutter closed at the taste. He picked well. “Does it taste alright?” 

Jon only gives a small ‘mmm’ in response, which makes Martin giggle. Jon truly is lovely when he eats. 

Martin manages to get Jon to eat most of what he’s brought, but he knows Jon isn’t usually a big eater. He makes sure not to overfeed him, either, as that would be rather counterproductive to the goal.

“Feel okay?” Martin asks, hoping he can keep the uncertainty out of his voice. 

“Very much so,” Jon sighs, contended, and a little dazed, which Martin takes as a good sign. He kisses Martin gently, appreciatively. It turns into something more frantic in time, and Jon makes a sudden needy noise into Martin’s mouth. Martin pulls away, but pauses a moment to take in just how put-out Jon looks when he does. 

“Let me put this away, okay?” he clambers off the mattress and makes sure dinner is safely placed on the desk and away from the threat of spilling onto their sheets. Jon’s back on him the moment he returns, and Martin welcomes it. He positions himself on top of Jon, kissing him back down into the swath of soft pillows. 

It’s not particularly hard to get Jon worked up, when he’s in the mood. Martin is relatively good at telling when that is, and is grateful to be picking up the tells tonight. He wants to believe it’s from Jon himself, not just the things Martin slipped into his dinner, but it’s hard when Jon is so focused, so quiet and determined. Like he’s trying to reach a goal, not just enjoying Martin’s company like usual. Martin supposes he can’t judge him-- his intentions aren’t exactly pure, either. 

Though Martin does know he has to do this, it still hurts him to see Jon acting less like himself. The tiny noises and desperate motions he’s so used to receiving from Jon in times like this have all been traded for silent concentration. Martin decides that it’s better to just focus on what Annabelle has asked of him, instead of Jon’s own pleasure. The quicker this is over for him, the better. 

Martin settles into the harness, into the rather large dildo that he knows Jon is a fan of. It helps, because this one is situated with a knot, and getting that inside Jon will make the following processes much smoother. 

He hadn’t enjoyed disclosing this particular piece of information to Annabelle, what he and Jon did and their preferences in bed were their own business, no matter if she insisted on all the details. Martin didn’t provide her with them, simply told her Jon would be ready for her, and that she needn’t worry about anything that happened before that.

It’s still just him and Jon, Martin thinks as he presses into Jon’s cunt slowly. It’s still a matter of Jon’s own wellbeing and their happiness as a couple. He’s doing the right thing, he knows he is. Jon just doesn’t know that yet.

“Alright?” Martin asks as he’s halfway into Jon. 

“Yes,” Jon gasps and nods quickly. “Keep going.”

“Can you take--”

“Yes.”

Martin continues, slowly as he can until the knot presses against Jon’s entrance. Martin knows that Jon can take it, he’s done it before and enjoyed the feeling, but there have also been times where he tightened up too much around it, freaked himself out, and Martin had to pull out and console him. He hopes that the drugs in Jon’s system will help with the nerves.

It’s incredibly slow and careful, but Martin does eventually get himself down to the base inside Jon. He stretches Jon out as Annabelle told him to, though probably more gently than she’d hoped. Martin takes his time, watching Jon’s expression, savouring the last few moments that Jon is entirely his. He doesn’t _want_ to share Jon, especially not without telling him, but this isn’t about what he wants, it’s about Jon’s safety. 

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Martin brings a hand to Jon’s clit, rubbing slow circles and watching Jon’s breath quicken. 

“Good boy,” Martin whispers. “You’ll be okay. Can you come for me, Jon?”

Jon nods, presses his own hand over Martin’s and wraps his legs around Martin, pulling him close, deeper into him. Tears well at his eyes from the sensation, trailing down his cheeks as he comes, The knot deep inside him. 

Martin pets Jon’s hair, still in him, and Jon smiles weakly. He looks so out of it, even moreso now that he’s come, exhaustion and inebriation blending into one. He’s still beautiful. Martin takes the time to appreciate every part of him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his grey-streaked hair damp at his temples from exertion, the way his dark eyes look just at Martin…

...And then it’s over.

A knock comes at the door, and Martin’s heart sinks. Jon immediately shifts underneath him, worry passing over that lovely face. 

“Uhm, just a moment,” Jon says to the knock. “Martin,” 

“Hold still, Jon.” Martin says, unable to keep the despondency from his voice. Jon squirms, confused, but he’s no match for Martin’s entire weight pressing down on him. The weight that is usually so safe and pleasantly encompassing feels cold and foreign. 

“Martin, what--”

The doorknob turns and clicks open. Martin doesn’t need to look to know who is standing there. 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Annabelle says.

“Oh my, I didn't expect to see quite so much so soon!” Salesa whistles. 

“Excuse m-me--” Jon stammers, trying to pull the covers around himself. Martin finally pulls out and away, sitting back on his legs and staring at Jon, doing nothing. Jon quickly presses his thighs together, wrapping the blanket around him as much as he can “What’s going…” 

Salesa chuckles next to him, but it lacks the warmth it usually has during their dinner conversations. He reaches out to stroke Jon’s arm and Jon pulls away like he’s been burned, which elicits a disappointed sound from Salesa. “Oh, what’s wrong? And here I thought we were getting along so well!”

“Don’t touch me,” Jon spits, anger fighting back against the drowsiness in his head. Drowsiness that Martin put there. “Martin, do something--”

“Martin has already done his part,” says Annabelle, standing at the foot of the bed. She’s dressed in a silk robe, a slight flush to her dark cheeks. “The rest is all about me and you, Mister Sims.” 

“I don’t think…” Jon tries, weakly. 

Martin, who has remained mostly quiet thus far, touches Jon in a way he hopes is comforting. “Jon, do you trust me?”

“O-of course I do, but I didn’t agree to anything with anyone but you,” Jon says, a clear panic in his voice.

Martin holds Jon’s gaze for a moment but then has to look away, lest he falter and jeopardize what he’s worked for. Jon tries to follow that gaze, but finds only apathy in his expression. He looks a world away despite sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Martin’s tone is sincere, but his voice curdles and twists into something Jon doesn’t recognize. Jon tries to ask, to do something to understand, but he barely opens his mouth before Annabelle is on him, swallowing the question up in her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and next were intended to be one big chapter, but i couldnt resist the cliffhanger. sorry! 
> 
> thank you for reading!! 
> 
> comments= ♥︎


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains an offhanded acephobic comment from salesa, as well as jon being scared hes going to die at two points, just a heads up. neither are particularly dwelled on.
> 
> there is a loooot of whump here. very bad times for jon. please heed warnings and enjoy!

Jon would like to think he struggled. But through the buzz of venom that seeped from Annabelle’s lips, Salesa’s dizzyingly strong hands holding him down, and Martin’s unyielding gaze upon it all, he couldn’t tell if he had or not. 

It was funny, in a way. Through all the ways his body was touched and prodded at without his approval, without his desire, the worst pain came from the expression on Martin’s face. Or rather, his lack of one. Concern swept over his features once or twice when Annabelle and Salesa positioned Jon, but it was more the way someone would look at a particularly fragile porcelain doll, not for Jon’s actual wellbeing. 

Jon turned his head just enough to speak, to get Annabelle’s lips off of him for a few brief moments, to breathe, to think, to ask what the hell was going on. She seemed to be amused enough by his struggle to allow it, pulling back and then pressing her dark lipstick to stain his cheeks.

“Martin…? Why aren’t you--” Jon looked pleadingly at him, searched his face for any kind of concern, praying to find it hidden somewhere beneath his features, in his deep brown eyes, but there was nothing. How could there be nothing? Martin loved him, didn’t he?

“Just try not to move too much? You’ll hurt yourself, Jon.”

_ Hurt himself _ , as if whatever Martin was allowing to happen here wasn’t going to hurt him more. As if Martin’s demeanor didn’t hurt like being gutted with a knife.

Annabelle’s kiss moved down to his jawline, his neck. “What have you done?” Jon begged. His words slurred slightly under the effects of whatever Martin had dosed him with. This couldn’t be happening, Martin was so kind and caring, he loved Jon, we wouldn’t ever allow for this. 

And yet, he was. 

“It’s… it’s for your own good, Jon. Please just trust me on this,” Martin struggled to say. Feeling as if he hadn’t apologized enough, he added “I’ll take such good care of you once it’s over. Can you just get through this for me?” 

Jon would have laughed if he hadn’t been so scared. “Why don’t you just stop it  _ now _ instead of dealing with the fallout later? Since when have you…”

“Couple of days after you two came in, I reckon,” Annabelle piped up. 

Jon glared at her, as much as he could through the horror that seemed to be permanently etched onto his face. “You did this to him.”

Annabelle snorted. The warmth of her breath tickled at Jon’s neck and made him instinctively jerk away. He didn’t like having his neck touched like this. “Me? No, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. All I did was provide an out. Martin is the one who made the choice to take it.” 

From the way Martin tore his gaze away from Jon and looked down at his hands, Annabelle was telling the truth. Jon’s heart sank to his feet. He wanted to cry, to scream, to kick and get out of their hold, to have some bodily autonomy to his name, but there was nothing. He was caught, and he had let himself be so. It was, without a doubt, the worst feeling he had ever been subjected to. 

And it was just beginning. 

Annabelle pulled away from his neck, her lips shimmering and wet. It seemed she had some sort of lipgloss on, her dark lips sheened with little stars when they parted to show rows of stark white teeth. Her canines were sharp and pointy, the reason for her lisp. Jon wondered absentmindedly if Martin would adopt the same speaking pattern, now that he was Web. 

God, Martin. How had Jon let this happen? What had he missed?

“Not a bad kisser,” Annabelle spoke through a grin. Jon shot her a glare-- the most he could do in Salesa’s grip. Mikaele was huge, holding Jon down must have taken no effort at all. It certainly didn’t seem like it was any trouble for him to tilt Jon’s neck back, squeeze his cheeks with one hand, and press their faces together in what might have been called a kiss. 

“No, not bad at all! Especially with so much spider toxin in him. It’s actually quite impressive.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Annabelle said, tucking Jon’s misery away into neat little lines on a to-do list. Jon wanted to retch, to empty his stomach of all the food Martin had fed to him-- no, no. He couldn’t think about Martin. If he thought about Martin he definitely wouldn’t come out of this in one piece. Did he want to survive this? He couldn’t tell. His mind throbbed and disgust blurred his thoughts. 

“Why are you doing this?” Jon managed to choke out. “What do you want with me?” A hand dipped between his thighs as an answer, and Jon gasped sharply. 

“Just a little favour your boyfriend volunteered you for. Need you to hang on to something for me for a bit, you’ll lend me a hand, won’t you?” Annabelle rubbed experimentally at his clit before taking her hand lower and pushing two fingers into his cunt. Jon tried to close his legs, to get away from the violation, but Salesa’s hands held firm on his knees, keeping them pushed apart. 

“Now Jon, be a gentleman and allow the lady to do what she needs to,” Salesa tutted.

“Stop,” Jon’s entire body shook as Annabelle prodded inside him. That was what she was doing, she was quite literally feeling around, scissoring her middle and index fingers, stretching him. It felt horrible and cold, and Jon swallowed down the bile rising in his throat once again. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

“Well, credit where credit is due. Mister Blackwood did a fine job of getting you prepared for me,” Annabelle said, her voice steady, like she wasn’t tearing Jon apart from the inside out. Jon had screwed his eyes shut, but he knew Annabelle was looking at Martin when she said, “Good job! Glad to see you didn’t let personal biases get in the way.”

Behind him, Salesa’s chuckle was cold, no longer containing the warm and familiarity Jon had come to expect from him. “He was probably thankful for the excuse! A bit of a toss-up with Mister Sims here, I’m sure…”

“Don’t--” Martin started automatically, and Jon almost didn’t recognize his voice. He had scarcely said much since they began. Jon found himself wishing it had stayed that way. The reminder that Martin was still perched on the bed, mere meters from Jon, from the awful things happening to Jon… it hurt like nothing else could even dream of hurting. It was even worse than if he had stepped out and left Jon alone with these monsters. Martin was watching, and he was doing nothing. 

Annabelle cleared her throat. “No point in delaying it then, I suppose.” Jon allowed himself to open his eyes just slightly, to try and prepare for whatever was coming next. Despite everything, he still had no idea what was happening, what they intended to do to him. A week ago, the thought of not knowing would have thrilled him. Now it just made him wish for a modicum of his power outside the walls of his place. 

The shifting of the bed as Annabelle stepped off of it to drop her robe down to the floor made Jon open his eyes fully. She was naked underneath the silk, and Jon’s gaze immediately flicked to the sight between her legs.

It wasn’t a cock, not really. It was bright green and coated in a sort of slick. The next thing that drew Jon’s attention was Annabelle’s stomach. It was slightly distended past what would be normal after a particularly filling meal. No, this wasn’t normal. She looked… pregnant. But not exactly that. It was a little to the left of that, like something Jon couldn’t place. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Ready for me?” she asked Jon. Jon’s eyes flicked to Martin, to Mikaele, but neither of them seemed shocked at the abnormal state of Annabelle’s anatomy. Jon couldn’t tell if he was imagining things, but as she moved closer back onto the bed, Jon’s pulse jumped. 

The thing between her legs. She meant to put that inside of him. Annabelle smiled as Jon met her eyes, complete and utter terror in his pupils.

“No, I promise you could never truly be ready for me,” she grinned.

Annabelle dragged her cock across Jon’s cunt, spreading her slick onto him. It felt hot, foreign, alien. 

“Please, no,” Jon whispered as she lined herself up to push inside. “Please, please, please don’t do this.  _ Oh god _ ,” 

He may as well have not been talking at all. The first few centimeters or so pushed into him as Jon tried to shrink back from the feeling, his entire body screaming at him to get away, nerves firing on overdrive. But pushing back only pressed him further into Salesa, and soon he was forced in between both him and Annabelle as she continued to push herself inside. 

Martin, ever present and completely silent, watched. Jon found it would only demean him more to beg for his help.

Annabelle sighed, trying again to position herself. “He’s moving too much. Mikaele...” 

“Ah, sorry, sorry. He’s so slippery! Hard to get a hold on him,” Salesa joked, his hands coming to rest on Jon’s hips. “Maybe we should ask Martin to help out?” 

Before Martin could reply, Annabelle scoffed. “Not likely. The less people on him, the better for me to do this cleanly,” she resituated herself, pressing her palms into Jon’s inner thighs. “And you,” she said, bringing her attention back to Jon, “You stay still. Or do I have to bite you again? It’s no trouble for me, of course, but your boyfriend might not like me roughing you up too much. So don’t make me have to.” 

Jon nodded, despite himself. Annabelle could be intensely frightening when she was making an effort to be. After this long in the house she had slipped into the background, they only ever saw Salesa, and Martin always brushed her off when Jon brought up the topic of the Web avatar occupying the same spaces as them. He’d been so tired, and so focused on other, happier feelings, that he’s allowed her to scuttle right past him at every opportunity. It must have been exactly what she wanted. Had Martin been complicit in that, too? Jon didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know where Martin ended and the Web began. Maybe it had always been there. He felt sick.

Distracted and growing increasingly despondent by the second, Jon’s only response to Annabelle entering him properly was a barely stifled string of pleas that fell on uncaring ears. Martin,  _ uncaring _ . Jon didn’t know the words could go together so well. Not after Jon had pulled him out of the Lonely, not after everything they’d been through, together?

His hips shook as he took Annabelle down to the base, and he shut his eyes after she sat herself fully inside of him. There was a few seconds of just that, just Annabelle sheathed inside of Jon, hot and uncomfortable. The apprehension built at the base of Jon’s skull all the while, because even without the Eye’s knowledge, he knew this couldn’t be all of it. There was something else, something to do with the way Annabelle herself looked ready and focused. Ripe. 

Then something pushed inside of him. Jon’s eyes flew open, panic shooting up through his spine. It continued to push, to bury itself deep into what almost felt like his stomach, but that wasn’t anatomically possible, was it? He barely knew what was and wasn’t possible anymore. But no; no, if not his stomach then… 

It all seemed to fall into place at once. Jon thrashed, as much as he could in Salesa’s grip. Annabelle’s hands pressed further into his hips, holding him steady. Her long, manicured nails dug into his skin and made tears bead up in his eyes. 

“And here I thought we were doing so well. You’re going to rupture them if you keep on squirming, and you’re  _ really  _ not going to like that, I promise you,” she sneered. “Stay.  _ Still. _ ” 

Jon was shaking violently, uncontrollably. He knew he should listen to Annabelle lest he make it all worse, but didn’t know how. 

She was going to get him pregnant, but not with child, no-- with eggs. She was laying eggs inside of him. 

“No, no, no please, please--” Jon gasped, his lungs burning from the beginning stages of hyperventilation as another few eggs pushed past his cervix. “I’ll do anything, please, please don’t make me, please,  _ please _ …”

It did nothing at all. His legs spread wide, anchored firmly down, Annabelle inside of him, he was completely trapped. A fly in a web of starved spiders. When straining against his captors became too tiring, Jon laid still and sobbed until he could manage the energy start again. All three of them just stared, enjoying the sight of Jon’s entire life burning up around him. If he was unsure of getting out of this before, the decision had already been made now. Had been made within a few days of stepping into Upton House. 

“Martin,” Jon tried after his next attempt to weasel his way out of Salesa’s hold. “Martin, please,  _ please _ …” It only earned him a second of a mournful gaze, then Martin flicked his eyes away, unable to look at Jon for too long. 

“Maybe you should go ahead and bite him, Annabelle,” Martin’s voice said, hesitant yet overflowing with sorrow. “I don't want it to hurt him more than it needs to.”

“Please, Martin, this isn’t you, you wouldn’t do this,” Jon begged as Annabelle’s teeth grazed the skin of his neck, like a nurse trying to find a plump enough vein. “You love me, don’t you? Didn’t you?”

If Martin replied, the sound was drowned out by the immediate pain blooming from Jon’s neck. Then something warm and wet, a tongue perhaps, lapped at the pricks of hot blood. Jon felt his grip on everything loosen within seconds. He tried to fight back against the current, the forceful calm that spread over him in crashing waves, but after a bit, he stopped.

Going slack in Salesa’s encompassing arms was so much easier than protesting and fighting. Annabelle even kissed him again, and the loudness of the buzzing in his body made everything else just background noise. 

Jon heard himself gulp down a breath, his breathing so ragged and uneven from crying-- had he been crying? He must have. Salesa’s hand came up to his cheek, he knew this because he felt it tip his head downwards to his chest, his damp, half-lidded eyes coming to rest on his stomach.

It looked like how Annabelle’s had when she had taken her robe off. Bigger than that, even. Distended. Taut. Salesa was speaking behind him, but every voice felt muffled and far from him. Although, that couldn’t be the case-- they were all in the same room, weren’t they? Jon wasn’t entirely sure any more. He wasn’t even sure how he was still awake, when his surroundings and actions felt like it had been smothered in a sugary syrup that slowed it all just short of a stop. 

Someone was palming at his chest, Jon realized. Big hands, not Martin’s… Salesa’s. Jon tried to protest, but the sound must have come out as something significantly more pathetic than that, because a burst of laughter rang out through the room, vibrating against Jon’s back. He didn’t want to be touched there, he didn’t want to be touched anywhere, but the strong, sure hands moved to pinch at his nipples and Jon all but mewled. 

It felt good. It shouldn’t have felt good, but it did. Jon liked his chest touched. He liked when Martin played with it. This wasn’t how Martin touched him. Salesa’s fingers pinched at Jon’s chest, rolled his nipples between his fingers, forced them to a sore peak. It was so very much, the pressure on his chest, on his stomach, the feeling in his skull that threatened to pull him under but always dangled him just shy of the edge. 

He lay there, Annabelle filling him. It was the only thing he could do. Just take it, take all of her into him. It must be what they wanted, what they had all been planning. This was all he was to them, an incubator. Somewhere safe to store her horrible eggs. Even to Martin, he supposed, he had been no more than a means to an end. A means to safety. To a grim pastiche of normalcy. 

He canted his hips up in time with her eggs entering him properly, the light pressure on his clit did something to distract from the pain, at least. Made it seem like he had some autonomy as Annabelle pushed egg after egg into him, filling him. Jon was afraid he might just burst at some point, just die some horrible death right then and there, but every time he was sure he couldn’t take any more, she snuck another past, and then another, and then another. 

Jon brought a cautious hand up to his stomach, half expecting to be grabbed by the wrist and pulled back from it, but either they didn’t notice or didn’t mind the gesture. His stomach was so very taut. He didn’t know how he could fit so many of Annabelle’s eggs inside of him, but a feeling close to pride ghosted over his mind at the sight. That wasn’t right, he quickly corrected, feeling repulsed with himself. He didn’t want this. This was one of the things he feared most, that he had been terrified by for most of his life. So then why did it feel so good to rub at his stomach, full of real, actual spider eggs? He stroked a gentle hand over his stomach, more gentle than any touch he’d encountered tonight, even from Martin. 

Oh, Martin. 

Jon suddenly wanted Martin to touch his stomach. To feel for himself what he had done to Jon. Because it wasn’t Annabelle, or Salesa, or even this awful house that had caused this. It was Martin. And Jon felt that he should at least own up to that fact. 

He reached out to his side, to where he had last seen Martin when he could still see without being assaulted by throbbing colors and light. Martin seemed to understand, and soon Jon felt a big, warm hand in his palm. Martin’s hand. He liked Martin’s hands. He wanted Martin to touch him, now that he was almost done being filled, tortured. He had to be almost done. He couldn’t take any more. He’d die.

“Hey... I’m here.” That was Martin’s voice, albeit a bit foggy still. Jon could at least make out the words, and despite the abject betrayal and hurt he felt from him, it was nonetheless good to hear that soft, familiar voice. He wished it wasn’t so reassuring. 

Jon brought Martin’s hand to his stomach slowly, but Martin only placed his palm down after Annabelle’s go ahead. And it felt so terrifyingly  _ good _ to have someone else rub at it. He didn’t want it to feel so good, but he hadn’t wanted many things tonight, and that didn’t seem to have stopped Martin. 

As the venom wore off, so too did Jon’s solace. The panic was seeping back into his brain, making him want to scream again. Martin must have picked up on Jon’s returning unease, because he began to shy away, back to sitting and watching, not speaking. Jon hated himself for missing it. 

“Almost done,” Annabelle said, something that was assumedly meant to be reassuring, but provided no such thing for Jon. “With this part, at least…”

“This part?” Martin asked suddenly, a slight shake to his voice. “Annabelle, we didn’t agree on--”

“Quiet. He’s harboring my eggs now, and I’ll do what I want. He’s not all yours anymore.” 

Martin didn’t speak after that. Jon, however, got a fresh shot of fear into his system. “What are you going to do? You can’t just-- just  _ use  _ me like I’m some--” his words were still slurred, his mouth dry and tongue heavy.

“Shush.” Annabelle cut him off quickly. “I wouldn’t spoil the surprise, but you won’t have to wait long. Aw, have I said too much?” 

She patted his haunches like he was some sort of animal, and pulled out without any other grandeur. Jon felt like a weight had been taken off of him, the pressure dissipating if only slightly. His chest heaved as he tried to remember how to breathe. Annabelle’s prick was still hard, still slick, but her stomach had shrunk considerably. Figures, as it was all inside Jon now. 

Slowly, carefully, she traced her fingers between his legs, dragging her sharp nails across his skin and not permitting him to relax. Always on the edge. 

“Venom’s worn off now, hasn’t it? It really only stays good for about an hour. Still,” Annabelle sighed, and opened her mouth to continue, but Jon cut her off. 

“An hour?” he repeated, unbelieving. No, it couldn’t be so. He hadn’t truly laid there and let her use him for an hour? Martin hadn’t spent an hour watching Jon cry and be packed full of eggs, had he? 

“It’s not a fast process. Go too quick and you damage the eggs,” Annabelle said. “Speaking of, let's make sure they’re well and good in there, yes?” 

Jon had barely finished parsing her question when he felt her at his entrance again. No, no surely she didn’t mean to-- not after she had just finished. Surely there was some reprieve--

“You don’t have anything left to give me,” Jon gasped, trying to reason. Had she just forgotten? What other reason was there for her to get back inside of him? 

“ _ Give you.  _ Do you hear him, Mikaele? _ ”  _ Annabelle laughed, a low giggle in her throat. It was very off-putting. “Not everything is about you, you know. Contrary to all you’ve been told. No, this is just for me,” she paused, then added, “and Mikaele, I suppose, if he wishes.” 

“I may just take you up on that, Miss Annabelle, since you’ve offered so kindly.” 

Jon shook his head, for all the good it did him. “Please, please, I don’t--” he was cut short by Annabelle’s hand surging forward and gripping his cheeks, her nails digging into his flesh. 

“You’re going to make me lose my temper. And if I do, I’m not going to be so generous. Be a good little gentleman and take my cock, okay?” 

Jon sobbed, but nodded out of fear for what would happen if he didn’t. Annabelle’s smile returned to her face slowly, and her prick back into his cunt at the same painstakingly leisurely pace. 

She fucked him more gently than he’d have guessed, but it should have been expected with her eggs inside him. He was grateful she seemed to care so much for them, and by extension, his well being. What a terrible thought, but what else was there to hang on to? The entire process still wasn’t pleasant, Jon had never enjoyed being penetrated without any other sort of stimulation, but he wasn’t about to ask for some, either. He just lay and took it, as he had taken her eggs. Maybe this was all he was good for, separated from the Eye. 

Jon could not say how long it went on for. When Annabelle had finished, coating his already slick insides with her spend, she swapped places with Salesa. She did hold his arms down, at first, but after a while found she didn’t need to. Jon was too tired to struggle. He let himself be fucked by Salesa, be split open on his cock, whines and whimpers escaping his throat with every thrust. Annabelle made sure he didn’t go too deep. He was thankful for that, if nothing else. 

Salesa pulled out to finish over Jon’s chest, some of it getting on his lips, one strand of white catching on his eyelashes. It didn’t bother Jon, nothing felt real. Annabelle leaned down and lapped it up, her sharp teeth dangerously close to his eye. 

The bed felt lighter eventually, and Jon realized Salesa and Annabelle had stepped off of it, were getting back into their clothes. It seemed to finally be over, but Jon didn’t want to get his hopes up lest they be crushed again. 

It seemed he was in luck, however. Annabelle cleared her throat, wiped some sweat from her brow and said, “Thank you, Jon. Be good to my babies, alright? I’ll check in in the morning.” 

“Martin will take good care of you, I am sure,” Salesa added. Jon saw him place a hand on Annabelle’s shoulder as they turned to leave. “Sleep well you two.” And then they were gone. It was over. 

Jon still couldn't move. Martin all but rushed over to him, pulling him up to rest against the pillows. “Jon, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Jon, please look at me. I’m sorry.” he babbled, brushed his hands over Jon’s warm face, trying and failing to put his messy curls back in order. Jon almost smiled at the idea of Martin trying to clean him. Jon knew he’d never be clean again. “Jon, please say something.”

Jon swallowed, met Martin’s eyes, and just stared for a while. Then he brought a thumb up to move Martin’s upper lip, to confirm for himself. His fangs were the same as Annabelle’s.. Sharp. It didn’t suit soft, friendly, loving Martin. 

“Why?” Jon asked as he allowed Martin to help him pull his sweater on and wrap a blanket around his shoulders. As if Jon being cold was the main problem right now, not his stomach that ached and throbbed, or the pain between his legs. 

“I didn’t know it was going to be like this. I’m so sorry. If I had known--”

“You wouldn’t have agreed to sell my body for your cheap domestic fantasy?” Jon scoffed. 

Tears pricked at the corner of Martin’s eyes. Jon couldn’t bring himself to care. “I didn’t ever mean to hurt you, Jon.”

“Liar,” Jon rasped. 

Martin said nothing, only wrapped his arms around Jon in a mockery of what his usual comforting presence would have been. He pet Jon’s hair, stroked his face, held him close in his arms, and Jon felt nothing at all. 

“Do you forgive me?” Martin had the gall to ask after a few moments of silence. 

“I don’t know.” Jon had the audacity to answer. It wasn’t a lie. 

He didn’t know how he felt. His brain was still a jumbled mess, his body sweaty and cold, even under Martin’s arms. He couldn’t tell if he forgave Martin. Maybe he did. If he didn’t, perhaps he would later. It wasn’t as if they were going anywhere. Martin had made sure of that. 

Jon couldn’t even find it in himself to care. 

He found he wasn’t able to focus on anything but the dull pain in his stomach, eating at him slowly, deliberately, until he finally passed out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for how long this chapter took to get out! i was in a writing slump for a good part of this month, but it seems to be over now. i can finally go back to writing deplorable, reprehensible things! 
> 
> thank you for reading and for all your nice comments on previous chapters. i hope this chapter meets your expectations! the next and final chapter will be out on halloween :>
> 
> thanks for reading! comments are always appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy halloween!   
> heres the last chapter a little early, heh. i hope u enjoy, because jon sure wont!

Jon wakes to find Martin slotted behind him, his warm hands on his stomach. ‘Wakes’ may not be the exact word, however, as Jon barely slept at all last night. Subsequent to jolting back into consciousness after blacking out, he had remained unable to close his eyes for long or risk dozens of tiny black legs spotting the insides of his eyelids. Martin had been there for him then, trying to comfort Jon while his own eyes were red and his expression exhausted. 

_ Stop fighting it, Jon, _ Martin’s tone said.  _ It would all be so much easier if you just accepted that I’m trying to help you. _

How could he? Jon didn’t want Martin’s help. Not now, and not ever again. He had, once, and it seemed so long ago now; but that trust had shattered. Martin had attempted to piece it back together, but it was a laughable attempt at the semblance of sanity. 

The sun, or whatever passed for it in this place, was at last beginning to peer through the cloudy veneer of the window curtain. Martin stirred behind him, and Jon automatically tensed. If Martin was waking, then Jon would have only a few minutes to go through with what he’d spent all his thought on while the house slept. 

“Jon?” Martin yawns. “Are you awake?” 

Jon shifted to face Martin, as best he could with the added weight. “Yes, I’m up. I’m here,” he says, plastering the ghost of a fond smile over his lips. 

The relief that crosses Martin’s sleepy face is palpable. “Oh, good. Uhm, how are you feeling? All things considered. Did you sleep alright?” 

Jon has to stop himself from wincing. It sounds so much like Martin, but he has to remind himself it isn’t. He focuses his eyes on the cobwebs in his hair and answers with an “I’m alright, I’m alright. I’m sorry about everything last night.”

“I’m sorry too, you have to believe me I really had no idea--”

Jon silences the explanation lingering on Martin’s lips with a shake of his head. “No, no, I should have listened to you from the start. It would’ve all been easier if I had. You only had my best interests at heart, I know.”

Martin sighs, pulling Jon close to press a kiss to his forehead. “Oh Jon, I’m so happy to hear that. You have no idea how worried I was…” he speaks against Jon’s skin. “I won’t let anything like that happen again, okay?” 

Jon swallows. “You promise?”

Martin nods quickly and pulls away to look in Jon’s eyes as he says, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” Pressing Jon back to his chest, he adds a murmured string of “Oh, Jon… my Jon, I love you so much.”

And though it pains him still, Jon echoes it back, and tries not to think of the way it hollows out his chest to speak. 

“I love you, too.”

They stay just like that for a while longer. Martin runs his fingers over Jon’s stomach, trying to disguise his wonder and excitement at the sight. He hadn’t been able to truly appreciate it last night, in the midst of everything, but now, in the morning light, Martin was so very in love with Jon in this shape. This was how Jon must have always been meant to be loved, so full of Martin’s patron that he could barely move, it caused Martin’s heart to beat all the faster. 

Annabelle was wrong, he thought, Jon would always be just for Martin. That was why he had done all of this in the first place, right? So he and Jon could finally be happy and normal, as it should be. Like this, they’d be able to actually focus on one another, like a regular couple. No more worries about saving the world, just treasuring the shape of Jon in Martin’s arms, his breath against Martin’s chest. 

It was worth it. It was all worth it, to have Jon so peaceful and  _ human _ again. Maybe the Web could even envelop Jon enough that he wouldn’t even have to worry about being separated from the eye. Oh, that was a wonderful thought. Until then, Martin would look after him, that was what he’d always done. Looked after Jon. It was what he was meant for. 

With another kiss pressed to Jon’s temple, Martin pushed the stark white sheets off of himself and swung his legs off the side of the bed. “I’m going to take a shower real quick, then we’ll go scrounge up some breakfast, okay?” he asked, pushing some grey-streaked hair behind Jon’s ear.

Jon nodded with a small smile. “Take your time.” 

The door to the bathroom clicked locked, but Jon waited until he heard the hiss of the faucet and the steady stream of water before he made to move. He didn’t know how long Martin showered for usually. They hadn’t had enough time to settle into something as mundane and routine as that. It didn’t matter, Jon would be out of the room for good by the time Martin finished. 

As hastily as he could manage, Jon stood and began to gather up all he needed. It wasn’t easy with the added weight to his body and shape of his stomach, and he nearly fell back onto the mattress when he tried to stand at first. Forcing himself to gain balance, he pulled his knapsack out from underneath the bed and began stuffing into it clothes, the tape recorder he had left on the desk, and any other provisions he could find.

Jon’s head throbbed horribly and his muscles burned, crying out in protest at his swift movements. He ignored it. He was going to get out of this awful place. He didn’t know where he was going, but anywhere was better than staying another second here with the thing parroting his boyfriend. He could find Basira again, yes, or Georgie or Melanie. He would even be willing to take Jonah over this. He’d make it work. The Eye would help him as soon as he stepped out of the little bubble that encompassed Upton House, and he’d make do.

Jon paused at the sight of Martin’s sweatshirt resting over the back of the desk chair. He stared for more than a few seconds, time he didn’t have. The squeak of the faucet knocked him back to his senses. He grabbed the sweatshirt, shoved it into his bag, and made for the door before he could have any other bad last-minute ideas.

* * *

The lobbies of Upton House were straightforward enough, even if Jon scarcely remembered little from his visit as a child, or even from the past week and a half of his stay here. His legs ached and he felt grimy, running on the last of his energy, and even that was pushing it. He shoved it down, and continued walking as fast as he could to the large front doors, checking down every corridor for any sign of the house’s other inhabitants. It felt strange, to be on such high alert for Martin, but even he could be considered one of them, now. 

Jon couldn’t dwell on that at the moment.

Rounding the corner, he finally catches sight of the entryway doors. He nearly whimpers in relief, shaky laughter bubbling up in his chest. It’s so close to being over, Jon can taste it. He’d never dreamed of longing for the horrible sounds and smells of the wasteland, but now he can’t be reunited with it fast enough. 

He’s near enough that he swears he can feel the sickly breeze from outside when his entire world goes completely upside down. 

Something around his ankle, something that couldn’t be there, the polished floors were free of anything but-- There is a jerk to his arm that makes him cry out in pain, and he’s spun in near-midair before he lands on his back on the cold tile. The bag on his back seems to have caught most of the fall, but a stabbing pain still echoes in his skull from where it hit the floor. Jon brings a hand to his head, and finds a thin, almost invisible strand of web wrapped around his wrist. 

“You could have hurt him!” 

Jon freezes.

“Relax, he’s  _ fine _ . I made sure he fell on his back, didn’t I? Not like I’d ever do anything to harm my eggs.” 

The ceiling spun as Jon squinted up at it from his place on the floor, tears beading in his tired eyes. He tried to believe he was imagining it, the familiar voices around him. The illusion shattered when Martin came into view, leaning over him, and Jon knew his one and only chance of ever making it out had vanished as quickly as it had come. 

Martin pulled Jon up to sit, his shaking hand pressed to Jon’s head, holding him close to his chest. “Are you alright? You’re not hurt badly are you?”

“Please,” Jon tries, half-delirious with pain and hunger and despair. “Don’t make me.”

“Oh Jon. you’re not thinking straight. We need to get you back into bed, get some food in you,” Martin chides, as if Jon had merely tried to push himself too hard with a fever. Maybe he had. He didn’t know anymore. Was that all this was to them?

Martin broke off the web still lingering around Jon’s limbs. “Can you stand?” he asks. Jon shook his head vaguely.

“Aw, I did you a favor, see? Now you get to carry him off to bed, so romantic.” Annabelle grins as Martin hoists Jon up, locking an arm under his knees and shoulders, pressing Jon close to his big, warm chest. 

“You could at least say thank you,” Annabelle deadpans when Martin pushes past her without answering. 

* * *

The stomach-churning sight of the same room he had just tried so hard to never see again nearly makes Jon scream. He’s helpless as Martin places him back down on the bed that Jon is forced to think of as theirs. 

“Let me get you something for that headache I’m sure you must be sporting,” Martin says, his voice taking the same doting tone that Jon knows all too well, has come to dread. “Be right back okay?” 

He’s about to turn to leave when his anxiety obviously gets the better of him and he pauses. “You’ll stay put, won’t you?” he asks, a slight plea to his voice. Jon nods. He couldn’t go anywhere if he wanted to. 

And Martin must still harbor some of the former trust they’d had, because he just gives a sad smile and leaves for the kitchen. Jon listens to his footsteps recede, and turns to the side and tries to breathe. 

He wipes his nose with the back of his shaking hands. What is there left to do now? None of them will ever let Jon out of their sights properly again. He wouldn’t be surprised if the front door was sealed forever shut in cobweb the next time Jon passed it. He’d blown his one chance to ever be free of this place and its terrible people. 

He supposed the only other option was trying to convince Martin to come back to himself. Jon had been known to be persuasive in the past, but was he able to be that still without the Eye’s help. His swollen stomach ached for a statement. Maybe Martin would take pity and bring him one when he came back in with food. He could hope. 

Martin. His former self could still be just below the surface, couldn’t it? Was there a former self? Had Martin always been like this, and Jon had just not cared to notice? It wasn’t a particularly good idea, but what else was there? Maybe he could collect himself before Martin returned and beg him to understand why this wasn’t what they needed. Yes, that had a chance of working out, Jon thought faintly. Martin seemed to still love him, possessed by the Web as he was. Jon was the Archivist, even if he was separated from the Eye. He could still try and persuade him. 

The creak of the door opening made Jon flinch, and he couldn’t exactly relax at the sight of Martin. 

“Does that have venom in it as well?” Jon asked as he looked at the tray of food, expressionless. 

Martin sighed. “Just enough to keep you calm. It’s not necessarily bad for you, you know.”

“Maybe not bad for you. I doubt spider venom would affect someone aligned with the Web,” Jon spat. He allowed Martin to sit him up and force some mild soup and tasteless bread into his mouth anyway. 

“Well, maybe now you’ll understand how I felt out there. When you got all eldritch. It’s not pleasant, you know. To always have to take a backseat,” Martin said as he lifted the spoon to Jon’s lips again. “No matter how much I cared for you, your patron always came first. It doesn’t feel great, after a while.”

Jon did get a tinge of guilt at that, mostly because he knew it was the truth.. “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage to say. 

“Yeah, well, it’s alright now. I’ll make sure not to let Her get in the way of me taking care of you.”

“The Mother of Puppets.”

“Yes.”

Jon turned away from the next bite Martin offered him, feeling sick. “Have you always been sensitive to it like this? Because I can honestly say I didn’t see it coming. And I do see most things,” Jon stopped. “Did see most things.”

Martin shrugged, a tired gesture like he wasn’t sure how to define something he felt so deep in his being. He placed the tray of food on the nightstand and passed Jon a glass of water and an aspirin tablet. Jon almost laughed. Something as menial as acetylsalicylic acid for the gnawing despair in every part of his body. He took it anyway to keep Martin from complaining. 

“It’s not something I can explain. I guess I just… knew I had to keep you safe, and that came before everything else,” Martin said. “She presented me with an out, and I took it. I was only ever thinking of your happiness, of us. Can you really blame me for something like that?”

“I guess not. And I guess talking it out wasn’t an option?”

Martin looked away. “You wouldn’t have listened.”

“Right. I suppose I wouldn’t have. No point in trying to get through to your eldritch fear god of a boyfriend,” Jon said, feeling more and more frustrated by the minute. He knew he should be playing nice, be trying to convince Martin otherwise, but how do you trick a trickster? How do you outsmart something so omnipresent it can predict everything you’re about to do? 

“Maybe I didn’t really know you at all. Maybe I only saw what I wanted to see.” Jon said, voice low. 

“Maybe.” 

Martin looked up at Jon’s blank face. He took it in his hands and sighed as Jon leaned ever so slightly into it, even now. “I’m still here, okay? I meant what I said about keeping you safe. I’ll make sure you get all the statements you need, and we can take walks in the garden, you can sit in the sunroom you like so much, and have dinner with me and Salesa.” 

“Okay,” Jon said, because there was nothing else to say. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Martin asked. 

Jon shook his head. “Hungry.”

Martin made a move to grab the food off the side table, but Jon put up a hand to stop him. 

“Oh, statement hungry, not food hungry. Got it.” Martin said. “Maybe you can sleep a bit now, and I’ll find one for you while you rest?” 

“Okay,” Jon repeated. Martin hesitated for a second.

“Do you want help getting to sleep?” he asked, and even in his dazed, starved state, Jon picked up on the insinuation. 

“Alright.”

Martin perked up immediately. “I’ll be real gentle, use my mouth,” he said, already scooting down on the bed and positioning himself between Jon’s legs. Jon didn’t want to look at him, but could hardly see over the swell of his stomach anyway. He was barely aware as Martin slipped off his sweatpants and underwear, cooing a tiny ‘oh,’ as Jon felt his warm breath against his cunt. 

“You’re so beautiful, Jon,” Martin spoke softly, voice dripping with admiration. “You know I love you so much.” 

Jon didn’t reply, but mustered a small sound as Martin began to touch him. He wasn’t wet, his cock not even hard, but Martin tongued at his folds and Jon managed a shudder. 

He tried to separate the sensation between his legs from Martin, to close his eyes tight and focus on just the feeling of it-- but he couldn’t. Not with Martin’s whimpers as he licked into Jon’ cunt, prodded his tongue past his entrance. It was still Martin, the same way he’d always fucked Jon, the same horrible familiarity. 

And he couldn’t pretend the gentle licks were unwelcome, either. The soreness between his legs from last night still remained, and clemency Martin granted him was soothing, a balm for the pain. 

He gave into it, eventually. Maybe it was the venom from the food finally taking effect and numbing his inhibitions, maybe it was just Jon finally reaching the last breaking point in himself after all. Jon couldn’t name it, but he could rock up into Martin’s warm mouth, allowing his thoughts to bleed out around him, and let Martin fuck him to completion.

They showered together, after that. Jon knew he needed it, but even as Martin washed his back and shampooed his hair, Jon was only barely conscious. His struggle had weakened him more than he’d realized, and he was no more than a doll as Martin toweled him off and carried him back to bed. 

Martin laid next to him, intent on holding Jon until he fell asleep. Jon didn’t have it in him to protest.

“This is a bit embarrassing but,” Martin started, his voice husky and obviously blissed out on post-sex endorphins. “I’ve, uhm, always sort of dreamed of starting a family with you. Which is stupid, I know, but, uh, maybe we can just think of this like that.”

Jon nodded. He’d spent so long feeding off the fear of others, being consumed by it himself, but he’d adapted. Hopelessness, he thought, was a new kind of fear, but not an altogether different one. He’d learn it, just as he had learned everything else during his time at the Institute. 

Back when him and Tim and Sasha believed they were only doing a normal office job. Back when Sasha and Tim had had the time for things like idle office gossip about how red Martin’s face would get when Jon told him off for putting too much sugar in his tea. They’d poke fun at his innocent crush on their boss and Martin, complicit and shy as always, had smiled along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if youve read this whole thing thru, thank u sm! i hope u enjoyed this awful little whumpfest, it was a lot of fun to write. i promise ill do (slightly) nicer things to jon in my next chaptered fic. 
> 
> comments = <3


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